


Calm the Storm

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gun shots, Joanlock - Freeform, Nongraphic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-09 10:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12885852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: "Each autumn night came sooner, felt colder, darker than the one before. Her heels dragged across the pebbly concrete of the Brooklyn sidewalk. Hands plunged in pockets and head down against the gusting wind, Joan was in no hurry to get home. The brownstone too had become a darker, colder place; evenings now were spent avoiding each other and when necessary in stilted conversation. She stood in front of the steps and wavered.... "------Some angst, soul searching, explanations - this got long (9 chapters more or less) and hopefully makes sense.





	1. Chapter 1

Darkness, laced in frost and icy breezes, swept over the city. Each autumn night came sooner, felt colder, darker than the one before. Her heels dragged across the pebbly concrete of the Brooklyn sidewalk. Hands plunged in pockets and head down against the gusting wind, Joan was in no hurry to get home. The brownstone too had become a darker, colder place; evenings now were spent avoiding each other and when necessary in stilted conversation.

She stood in front of the steps and wavered.... 

Three weeks ago she had told him she was going back to work. Her medical license was up to date and she had applied for and accepted a position at a free clinic; three half days a week helping the homeless and nearly homeless. Calmly, she laid out her rationale, explained her need and desire to proactively help others, and that this tentative return to medicine might fill the void she felt. Joan made a point of stating that she was not moving out, she was still his partner, she was still working cases with him, nothing would change except for four hours a day, twelve hours a week, on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, she would be practicing medicine. 

Sherlock had listened, face impassive. She had watched his body signal his distress: his shoulders pushed back, his stance grew rigid, legs staked to the ground, his fingers ceased their nervous tapping. When she finished her rehearsed speech, Joan paused and awaited his reaction. Expecting anger or hurt, a verbal lashing out, strong arguments and pleas to change her mind, she instead received a simple nod of the head and a hollow, "I see." His focus shifted from her to a point somewhere behind her before he walked out of the room.

Seventeen hours passed before they spoke again. No argument, no acknowledgement of their previous conversation, he merely alerted her to a call from the captain requesting their presence at a double homicide. Sherlock asked if she would join him, she answered yes, and off they went, rather stiffly, to solve the murders.

That first Monday before she set off to work, excited and a little fearful, Joan had decided to talk to him, share with him her feelings in an effort to draw him closer, but she found he had left. She sent him a text telling him she was off to work, would return in four hours or so and received no answer. It hurt but she stuffed it away and set off on her new adventure. That first day had been difficult for her emotionally and physically. Memories of her previous life as a surgeon kept popping up and stopping her, making her carefully consider actions that should have been performed with no thought. Joan pushed through the fear and the hesitancy faded when faced with the overwhelming amount of people waiting for her help.

At the end of that first day, those four short hours, she found herself exhausted; only a self induced numbness had gotten her through. Walking into the brownstone kitchen, hoping Sherlock was there to be her sounding board, she instead found a note on the counter, "Food in the refrigerator. Working a new case. Will not be back until late." It hurt. She'd needed a friend that night and true to form, she thought, he left. In a way, his absence and curt note had strengthened her resolution and helped her stay the course - she would be back at work on Wednesday.

And so it went. In two weeks time, he did not bring up her new employment once and for that matter, neither had she. Their work was their only true communal point; the work routine stayed mostly the same, the friendship felt less strained when a common cause presented itself. And when a case was solved, the fire died down to a flickering spark and the awkward coldness settled between them once more. Each drifted to their corner of the house and waited for the next case to come along. They reached an unstable peace, moving further apart, tethered to each other only by the work. 

The wind rustled the leaves at her feet and brought Joan back to the moment. She was freezing out here. Joan moved towards the stairs, looking up in time to see the silhouette of his form turning away from the library window. 

 

Sherlock watched for her return on days she worked. He berated himself for doing so but if he was home, around the time she was due back, he would find himself casually glancing out onto the street. 

Right now, Watson stood at the foot of the steps to their home, if indeed it was still their home. Hands in pocket and wind whipping at the strands of hair that had escaped the shelter of her wool beret, she stood staring off down the street as if planning her getaway. She looked as dejected as he felt. Whatever thread it was that bound them together was loosening and unraveling; more and more of it pooled at their feet each day, threatening to trip them if they dared to move.

He admitted he was also partially to blame for the current state of their friendship. The thought of losing her, of her needing more than their work, than him, had triggered a total shutdown on his part. He couldn't face her, couldn't, wouldn't speak. Watson knew his feelings and she chose to step away. He did not know her feelings but he could guess by her actions. There was no point in discussion. He knew from the onset of her return to the brownstone, at some point she would leave once again. 

Sherlock was self aware enough to understand why he acted as he did. It did not stop him, but at least he told himself, he understood. 

As his father and brother had both pointed out, for their own selfish reasons of course, Watson was the one person he loved most in the world. He'd only loved, truly loved, one other person his whole life and she left him. His mother chose her own needs over the needs of her child. Sherlock scoffed at psychology for the most part but he understood enough to know that what was being played out under the brownstone's roof was a replay of his childhood nightmare. Watson was not a maternal surrogate, far from it; but she was an integral and vital part of his life and she was choosing to separate herself from him. This time he would not cry and beg, not make bargains with some unknown power for her return. This time he was just going to let her go, as much as it might hurt, there was no other way. 

At times these past few weeks he thought perhaps he had overreacted, perhaps they could find a new way back to each other but there she stood outside ... choosing the dark and cold rather than him. He turned away and walked back towards the cold case photos and documents pinned over the mantle. 

 

The front door opened and closed with a squeal and a click. Not bothering to announce her arrival, Joan hung up her coat on the rack and took off her beret. She smoothed down her static frizzed hair and looked into the library. He didn't bother to turn around. 

She spoke up out of spite, to make him acknowledge her presence. "I think the storm's coming in early." She folded her arms protectively before her. 

Sherlock twisted at the waist to peer at her. Fitting that their topic of conversation was now the weather, the banal retreat of strangers. "Mmmm." He nodded and turned back to the photos.

"How was work?" He asked her but faced the wall. The way he dragged the words and over emphasized the consonants made it more of a mocking accusation than a question of interest in her day. 

It was not lost on Joan. She responded in the manner she knew would hurt him most. "It was wonderful. There was so much to do but it was good, so good to help people and feel appreciated. I didn't want to leave."

No response from Sherlock, not anger or sarcasm. Nothing. He continued with his work as if she didn't exist. She shot daggers at the back of his head. Joan walked away towards the stairs feeling alone and miserable. She had sworn to him she wouldn't leave but at the moment this was the last place on earth she wanted to be. 

When he was sure she was well on her way downstairs to the kitchen, Sherlock flung the file he had in his hand at the mantel. Papers and photographs flew in all directions. He stomped to the coat rack, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the house slamming the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

His hair, usually clipped short, almost into nonexistence at the back and sides, was getting long. He needed a haircut. Joan stared at his neck, head bent at an awkward angle, cheek pressed flat against the papers on the red table. Sherlock undoubtedly worked last night until he dropped. A tiny twist of guilt unraveled itself and flitted through her; she hadn't even asked what he was working on last night nor offered to help. But then he didn't really seem to want her help or anything at all to do with her last night.

She took a step closer and set the hot cup of coffee on the table beside him, calling his name out at the same time. "Sherlock." The muscles of his cheeks twitched. "Sherlock!" She repeated more forcefully. "Time to get up."

His head popped up and he winced as muscles too long held at odd angles complained about their treatment. Bleary eyed, he looked up at her and wiped at his face. "Watson," he murmured contently. 

She couldn't help but smile at the dopey look on his face. "Good morning."

He stretched his back and surveyed the mess of documents before him. Steam rose from his coffee cup and he moored himself to it, taking a careful sip in hopes of rising from sleep's quagmire. "I must have fallen sleep." 

"One could so deduce ..." she said with a touch of sarcasm; he accepted the comment with amusement. Joan set the plate of scrambled eggs and toast before him. "Here, eat. We got a call from the Captain, he needs us in midtown, homicide. Several people shot, one fatality." Sherlock took the plate and scanned the table for his phone. "You left your phone downstairs," she answered his unspoken question. 

"Ahh..." he shoveled eggs into his mouth excited at the prospect of new work and working with his partner. 

"Slow down, you're going to choke," she chastised and he grimaced at her with a mouth full of egg and toast, a scene they'd played out a hundred times before. "I'm going to get dressed." She looked at him, his hair in weird swirls and his shirt wrinkled and askew, "You might want to take a shower; we have time."

Sherlock nodded and took a big swig of coffee to push down the food, "Any details about the crime scene?"

"Oh." Joan pulled his phone out of the pocket of her pajama top and set it before him. "Here. It'll give you something to read while you eat." With a bounce she walked out of the room and up the stairs. 

This is how it should be she thought. This is us. Why can't he see that we will never lose that. 

Sherlock for his part had the same thought except he didn't understand why she would give this up for anything else in the world. 

\----

Larry, a hulk of a man, easily three hundred pounds and well over six feet tall, kept walking towards them. Sherlock and Joan had followed their suspects to an isolated spot on the Jersey side of the Hudson. They walked backwards while Larry, brandishing nothing other than thickly muscled arms and a small, shaved head, kept walking determinedly towards them. Behind Larry, Richard, their primary suspect in the midtown shooting, coolly held a gun, amused by the scene that was playing out in front of him.

"You should know that we alerted the authorities to our whereabouts, to your identities and the evidence of your crime." Sherlock glowered at the men as he spoke. His demeanor and proclamation had no effect on either man. He peeked over his shoulder. They were fast approaching the edge of the river bank. Larry grunted.

Joan too took a look behind her. The bank was more of a cliff, it fell off into nothing just a few feet behind them. She looked at her partner and hoped he had a plan because at the moment she had nothing. Larry kept getting closer.

Sherlock gauged the height of the fall off behind them, an approximate eight foot drop. Sand, water and a few rocks would break their fall or their bones depending on their angle of descent. He reached over, found her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. "Prepare yourself, Watson," he whispered and gave her hand a small squeeze.

Larry chose that moment to lunge at them, pushing hard against Sherlock's shoulder with a wheezy laugh. Sherlock, thrown off kilter, fell backwards off the embankment and Joan trying to stop his fall, went down with him.

Arms and legs flailed, their bodies bounced against the not so soft sandy soil, and landed with a splash in the shallow, murky water. The water was three, maybe four inches deep and bone numbing cold. Sherlock lay on his back, momentarily stunned. His first thought was of Watson and he blindly stretched out his hand towards where he heard her move. 

Joan turned on her side and grabbed hold of his hand, "Okay, I'm okay." She hurt but not overly so considering the fall they'd just taken. "Are you alright?" She rolled over almost onto his shoulder and checked him, his eyes blinked and something clicked. Joan looked behind her, up to the edge of the cliff, to see their suspect, gun in hand aiming straight at them.

"Gun!" She yelled and pulled at Sherlock's shoulder. Instinct and training took over and he rolled over on top of her as a bullet ricocheted not a foot behind them. They scrambled to move but another shot this time inches behind her head made them stop and huddle down. He tried to cover as much of her body with his, his hand holding her head close under his, while trying to stay above the shallow water. More shots rang out but none hit anywhere near them. They heard shouts and a scuffle before a familiar voice called down to them, "Holmes! Joan! You two okay?"

His head lifted to see Marcus at the edge of the cliff, gun in hand, with New Jersey sheriffs in action around him. Sherlock apprehensively looked down to Watson, her head lay cradled on his arm to keep her above water. She looked as scared as he felt but her eyes caught his and wordlessly reassured him she was not hurt. Relieved, he gently swiped at the tangle of her at her forehead and moved to help her up. He called up to Bell, "Yes! We're wet and bruised but okay." 

"Stay where you are. Don't move. I've got EMTs on the way down."

 

Joan and Sherlock dragged themselves across the house's threshold. The brownstone, smelling of lemon wax and pine cleaner, cheerfully welcomed the tired detectives home. Apparently, Ms. Hudson had not only delivered a dry change of clothing to the precinct for them, but had worked all day to make their house livable once more. 

Joan's back and hip ached from the fall. Checked over thoroughly by the EMTs at the scene, both were given the okay to continue working. The rest of their day had been spent interrogating Richard and Larry; the two men would not divulge the name of the man in charge, the man who had hired them to murder. A few leads presented themselves and they were ready to pursue at least one of them but Gregson stopped them around ten o'clock and ordered them home. They were tired enough to give in with little argument. 

Sherlock scratched at his head. "I need a shower ... and a haircut ... but for tonight the shower will do. I'll meet you in the media room when I'm through and we can review the surveillance tape." She had an odd look on her face. "What? Would you rather shower first? I can wait. I'll cue up the video..."

"No, Sherlock. I mean yes, I do want a shower but I'm going to bed right after. I'm exhausted and I have the early shift at the clinic tomorrow." She watched his demeanor change as she spoke. His shoulders thrown back, his mouth curved downward and his chin jutted out; he was ready for battle.

"The case has not been solved. We still have work to do. Surely catching a murderer is more important than..."

She cut him off. "No. No it's not. My work at the clinic is equal in importance. I made a commitment to be there and help those people..." 

"A job anyone can do." He spoke over her, his voice getting louder as he continued. "But your abilities as a detective are unique, you cannot be replaced here and I..."

"Stop it. You're acting like a ..." Joan took a breath and controlled her anger. "I will only be gone for four hours. If you need my so called unique abilities, you can call or text and I'll get back to you when I'm free."

His chin jutted out even more. Sherlock stared at her good and long before walking past her and up the stairs. 

So much for feeling they had turned a corner today, she thought. They needed to sit down and honestly talk through all this, but not tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships, all relationships, are complicated journeys and we all bring baggage

Sherlock spent the entirety of his night attempting to work, motivated more by anger than the need to find the killer. He worked feverishly hoping that by the time dawn lightened the sky, he would be ready to face Watson and reveal his genius deductions to her, culminating in the revelation of the killer's true name! Unfortunately, he started getting quite punchy in the wee hours of the morning.

.... Watson, ha! If she could turn so easily away from work that obviously needed to be done, well, it spoke ill of her commitment to the work and to them, didn't it? From here on out, he'd be on his own.... He had worked by himself quite successfully for many, many years. .... He'd show her that a Holmes could beat a Watson with one lobe tied behind his back... 

With that thought, Sherlock recognized he'd reached the end of productivity for the evening. Rising from the hard backed chair, he stretched his sore muscles and headed downstairs to his bed with the intent of laying down for a few minutes before continuing. He passed Watson's room and resisted the urge to check in on her. 

Ms Hudson had left the kitchen spotless and his bed made. Sherlock's head no sooner touched the pillow than he was asleep.

He awoke hours later to silence. He checked his phone, a few minutes past ten. No messages from ... from anyone. Angry at himself for wasting the morning, Sherlock sprung to his feet only to sit back down just as quickly when the aches and pains of yesterday's leap made themselves known in unison. Watson would be home in a couple of hours. He needed to get moving.

 

Joan checked her phone for the tenth time that hour. 

"Are you expecting a call Dr. Watson?" Nurse Paveli smiled kindly at her but Joan knew the question carried a reprimand. Her focus should be with the patient before her. The child had just turned seven. She was tiny for her age. When the family moved two weeks ago into a temporary shelter, Lili stopped eating, refusing all food except an occasional protein shake and grapes. Joan reviewed the chart and then smiled at the small girl. PTSD had no minimum age. She resisted checking her phone one more time and instead started talking to Lili. 

 

It was one by the time Joan finished her appointment with Lili and her mother; she sett up counseling for both and they worked out strategies for increasing the child's caloric intake. She felt good, progress had been made and the child left with a smile on her face and a bag of chips from the vending machine - not the best of foods but it was calories and Lili needed all the calories she could get. 

Joan pulled out her phone as she walked out of the clinic. Not one word from her so-called partner. She dialed his number. Expecting voicemail, she was surprised when he answered the phone. 

"Hey, I just finished at the clinic. Where are you? Anything new?"

"Marcus and I are on our way to the Hamptons. Mr. Campbell should be under arrest in an hour or so."

"Campbell, really? He would not have been my first choice." Joan dodged around a cab and crossed the street towards the subway stairs.

"Marcus was the one who made the connections; followed the evidence to the man." She noted a hint of irritation in Sherlock's voice.

"Hmm, well good." Joan was surprised at the feeling of disappointment that crept up on her. "You didn't need me after all. Call me when you get back. I'll meet you at the station."

"No need. We'll be fine without you." And with that not so subtle jab, he dismissed her and hung up. 

She shut off her phone. "Prick," she muttered under her breath. Her bubble of contentment at her morning's achievements burst. Joan raised an arm and hailed a taxi. She was now in no mood to face the jostling and indifferent transit crowds of the City. 

 

Marcus looked over at Holmes. He had had some trepidation about a two hour drive alone with him. Sherlock could be a bit overwhelming at times; but the man had said barely a word. After talking to Joan, he radiated glumness. Marcus did not need to do much detective work to understand something was going on between them. He drove on in silence for a little longer, not sure he wanted to open a can of Holmes and Joan's squirmy mess. Not that Holmes, or Joan for that matter, had ever talked to him in any detail about their relationship. He'd just been around both of them long enough to know it was complicated. 

Marcus stole a glance at Holmes, his white-knuckled hand was still clenched around his phone. He'd probably regret it but he jumped in, speaking softly, "You and Joan having problems?" 

Sherlock looked up at him as if surprised to find him there. He looked down at his hand and released the death grip he had on his phone. The thought of sharing their current situation with the detective, of having a third party perspective on their current state of turmoil, filled him with hope quickly followed by dread. This was their problem, alone. It would seem a breach of trust to talk to someone else about it, even Marcus. 

"No. Not at all." The meekness of his statement surprised Marcus; he had half-expected a snarl and a surly rebuff from Sherlock. Whatever was going on was definitely something serious. He was obviously lying but Marcus didn't press the issue. Sherlock resumed his blank stare out the passenger side window and Marcus went back to focusing on the road. When and if either of them wanted to talk, they knew he would listen. 

 

Joan walked out onto the roof and past the hives to the walled edge. A light wind blew the crisp night air against her and she wrapped the cardigan a little tighter around herself. She came up here seeking refuge from the silence that permeated the house, an unnatural quiet that set her teeth on edge and had her pacing from room to room. 

The bridge lights twinkled and behind them Manhattan shone. Sherlock was out there doing what he, no, what they loved best, and she was home alone, by turns feeling angry and sad. She felt shunned but she had enough dignity not to admit it, not to call Marcus, not to call him. Joan had considered calling Emily or Jen to go out, to talk, but this was just too personal to share with them. 

She wandered back over to the hive. Soon it would be time to prepare them for winter. Joan closed her eyes against the memory that suddenly swept over her. 

"Allow me to introduce you to Euglassia Watsonia ...  
You named a bee after me?" 

She swallowed back the lump that formed in her throat. Had even this, this relationship, become like all the others and run it's course? Feelings of wanting to run away from everything and everyone began to bubble within her. Those feelings were what led her to this moment once again. She felt herself shutting down, giving up and she forced herself to admit the truth. They were good together and good for each other, she knew it as did he. Joan threw the blame back on him. He was just being a child and throwing a tantrum.

With a shaky breath, she reached for a chair and scraped its metal legs across the roof's surface. Joan sat before the hive; the bees would keep her company tonight... would help her sort this out ... the bee in the box ... that solitary bee ... she used to think it represented Sherlock, that poor bee who had to learn to live with others and now she wondered if it was her ... the solitary bee ..

 

The roof door flung open with a bang. Joan, startled awake by the noise, jumped in her chair and turned quickly towards it. Sherlock was walking towards her, a strange look of urgency on his face. 

"What's wrong?" She asked as she sought to focus sleep fogged eyes.

He stopped a few feet from her and composed himself. "Nothing ... I ... I couldn't find you ... I ... you didn't answer... " Sherlock stopped; his face betrayed his fear.

"I turned off my phone ... " she murmured guiltily, knowing the sin it was for them to completely break connection like that - you could choose not to answer but the phone was always on. "Must have fallen asleep. What time is it?" She shifted in her seat and felt the cold further infiltrate her sweater. 

"A little after two." He whispered. Mutely, they locked eyes and sadly communicated more non-verbally than they had with all the talk these past few days. A cold wind swept between them. "You should come inside. Rain is forecast." 

Joan nodded but did not move to get up and instead shifted her focus back onto the hive. Sherlock watched her for a moment or two, waiting, finally realizing she was shutting him out; he cast his eyes downward and walked away. The door softly squeaked and closed behind him with a click.

 

Saturday morning shone cheerfully through the Brooklyn neighborhood. The sound of children's laughter and parents' reprimands, barking dogs and the occasional car horn filtered in through the house's old windows. The sights and sounds of the morning did nothing to cheer his spirits. Sherlock without a case or project was a terrible thing on a normal day but given his preoccupation at the moment, he was on the edge of madness. He understood his irrational state and in an attempt to avoid what was sure to be another confrontation with his partner, he picked up his keys and coat and left for a walk, uncharacteristically for him, a walk with no purpose other than to get out of the house. 

An empty bench in the neighborhood park provided a temporary sanctuary from which to once more re-examine the circumstances of their current situation. Sherlock understood a simple solution existed, he needed to accept her move away from the life they had built together. He needed to detach himself emotionally from her and should the worst occur, it might not hurt as much. The question that bothered him, pained him as much as the situation itself was why? Why now? What had caused her need to return to medicine, to step away from him? He had been aware at points in their partnership that medicine still called her, beckoning with the satisfaction of active helping of others. But there was more to it. Her decision sudden, without warning, it had blindsided him.

As of late, their work and life had been progressing smoothly with no spats except the occasional toilet seat issue or their long standing argument on refrigerator cleaning. If his memory served him properly and there was no doubt that it did, forty-nine days ago to the hour, they had cracked a case so beautifully convoluted that it had taken both of their minds working with optimum precision, in absolute tandem, to solve. They filled in each other's spaces, they leapt together, and landed at the same time into the answer. Sherlock remembered the sense of elation they felt, the freeing joy of having beaten the problem that had besieged them for weeks ... their shouts of celebration ... He had even dared to place his arm around her shoulders and give her a small squeeze in celebration, and she had hugged him back ... setting a small kiss at his cheek ... they were one person at that moment ... one happy person ... Watson and Holmes ... closer than they had ever been ... 

He sat there frozen as he thought through, and verified to himself, the possibility he was correct in his assumption... the understanding of what the catalyst for their current problems might have been ... and how to move forward ....

 

Joan left the brownstone shortly after he did and for the same reasons. She headed into the city to run some errands, perhaps drop in at her favorite book store. Between being shot at and cast aside, it had been a rough week; she was going to treat herself.

She scanned the items carefully displayed on the bookshelves and came to a stop before a copy of Carl Jung's The Red Book. The book had been on her list of "gets" for ages. It was pricey but just taking a look wouldn't hurt. As one hand reached for the book, a text lit up the phone in her other. 

Sherlock: Are you home? We need to talk. 

Her heart pounded. This was bad. This was going to be very bad. He had texted in actual English and not the shorthand he was so fond of. Joan stared at her phone before reaching a trembly hand to answer: Out shopping. I'll be home at 7. 

He texted right back: I'll be waiting. 

Joan lost all interest in books and Carl Jung. She knew they needed to talk but the fact that he wanted to talk made her nauseous. They had been running hot and cold these past few days. Mainly cold. With any luck, he wanted her to move out. That might be for the best. Just cut the ties and move on. She'd already been with him longer than any other person save her family. She'd learned as much as she could. If he didn't want her, didn't want what she had to offer, it was his loss. Her thoughts raced and her heart eventually caught up and despondency replaced her righteous anger. How had they gotten here? What happened? It was her life to choose how she lived and what she wanted, although right this very minute she was unsure of what it was she wanted. 

She made her way to a coffee shop, ordered and sat deep in contemplation, fighting the urge to create a fictional emergency and avoid this talk completely.


	4. Chapter 4

7:01 and she had yet to walk through the door. Sherlock used every bit of his self control not to run out the backdoor and avoid this conversation altogether. But he was the instigator of the meeting and it needed to be done. He had it all worked out. He would be pleasant but firm, polite but factual, he would not let emotion get in the way. This he thought might prove difficult as it was emotions they needed to discuss.

The door opened and he sat up a little straighter in his chair. Watson walked in, acknowledged him with a tilt of the head and took off her coat. "I'm going to go change, I'll be right back down. 

Sherlock mmhmm'd and folding his hands in his lap to wait, he visualized himself running out the front door. He'd be polite, of course, and leave a note.

Fifteen minutes later, she walked into the room, hair up in a pony tail, in sweats and the cardigan that had seen her through practically every trauma of the past six years.

She sat on the sofa rather than in the chair beside him, "Okay, what's going on?" Her faced remained in neutral hiding the wince her soul felt. 

Sherlock realized she was just as scared as he was, not sure if that was a good thing or bad. He stood and pushed the ottoman until it was before her and sat. He took a breath and with bent head stared at the floor. He raised his eyes to hers and cocked his head, "I think we both know what's going on."

She didn't like his condescending tone and responded accordingly. "Yes. You are being a child and sulking because you don't want to share me with the rest of the world." Her arms crossed and she lifted her chin in challenge.

He looked at her not angry as she expected but somewhat amused. "Yes, that is partially true, but that's not all of it." Sherlock clasped his hands before him and started speaking to them rather than her. "I have only truly cared wholeheartedly about two people in my life."

The earnest tone of his voice caught her off guard and she stopped trying to come up with defenses and listened. 

"My mother and you. ... you know my history, my mom abandoned me at a young age. I know it's far more complicated than that but through a child's eyes, she left. I was not important enough for her to fight for or stay for..."

"Sherlock..." Joan was uncomfortable with the comparison to come and started to argue her case.

"No, let me finish. I know, you are not my mother, my feelings for you are very much different. But they are equally as strong. And when you presented me with the fact that you were drawing away, if only for a minuscule amount time, I reacted and perhaps am still reacting as a child because that is the only reference I have for someone I ... I care about not wanting to be with me. I know it is no excuse for my behavior and I cannot guarantee I won't fall back to that behavior. It is an explanation."

"I understand. And I tried to tell you I am not walking away from you, but you just didn't seem to believe me."

Sherlock looked deep into her eyes, "That was because you were lying to me ... and to yourself." This was going to be the hard part.

"I am not lying Sherlock." Joan felt herself getting angry at him again. 

"Hear me out ... just listen... this is going to be difficult for you so please just listen.... You too were abandoned as a child by a parent ..."

"Oh please, you aren't going to equate ..." she moved to get up and he put up a hand to stop her but he made sure not to touch her. 

"Just listen. When I'm through you can berate me, walk away, whatever ..."

She sat back down.

"Your father, like my mum, left - both left not for lack of love but illness and addiction, things out of their control. As a child, you only feel the abandonment. I chose to act out my feelings with tantrums and rudeness. You chose to disconnect so that you wouldn't be hurt again."

"That's ridiculous. I connect, I have friends, I care..."

"Yes, but you keep us all at arms length and should someone try to get closer you walk away."

"You are so deeply wrong, it's funny." She wiped at her face. "I've had close relationships, I have close friends...."

"Yes. But how many relationships have you walked away from when things became too intense..."

"If you're talking about Liam, that was necessary for my own health. He was an addict and not willing to change."

"No Liam is your Irene."

"Moriarty" she corrected him out of reflex. 

"Moriarty. Liam was pretending to be someone he was not. I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about the doctor who asked you to marry him..."

"I wasn't ready."

"And Ty Morstan..."

"We just weren't right ... just because I've had a string of bad relationships..."

"From what you've told me, these weren't bad relationships. You chose to end them when ..."

"What are you getting at ..."

"And Andrew," he paused knowing it was still hard for her. "He was on the verge of proposing and you were on the verge of walking away when ..."

"That's it. Stop this." She stood up. "I will not be psychoanalyzed, have my life mansplained simply because I want time to do what I want and not what you want me to do." 

He stood and followed after her. "Forty-nine days ago we shared what was for us a moment of physical intimacy. We had a huge breakthrough in a case that had beleaguered us for months. I ... uncharacteristically, I will admit, I reached out and hugged you and you reciprocated, giving me a kiss on the cheek. We shared a moment of closeness and that moment scared you. It triggered you, much like your going back to medicine triggered me. It signaled danger to some part of your psyche, that you were getting too close and you had to leave before you were trapped, before I left you. And you found a way to start the process of separation, you ran back to an old love, medicine, rather than face the possible deepening of our relationship. You were and are feeling trapped."

"Mmm, I see, this is all about you then. You think I have such a grand and overwhelming love for you that it scares me? It couldn't be that you are just overbearing and controlling and I need some time away from you could it? My past is my business. If I keep people at arms length, well apparently I have really good reasons for it. You ran away from me before when I was in dire need. I can't trust you." She knew she was hurting him but couldn't stop. She felt vulnerable and very much alone. "Don't tell me how I feel or why I feel. Did it ever occur to you to ask?"

"I've asked!" His voice boomed. "And asked and asked! I understood and respected your reticence when discussing personal matters since the day I proposed partnership to you. Your difficulty in saying how you felt out loud... hmmm? But we've been together for years now and in the course of our partnership I am still the one who states my feelings while you remain mute, or worse walk away. You don't think that hurts?"

"I have stuck by your side through the worst of times, how does that not tell you how I feel."

He got quiet. "It's not the worst of times I worry about. It's the times when things are at their best that worries me. When you cannot articulate your feelings and I'm left to wonder how soon before you're gone ...."

Her face turned stone cold, beyond emotion, Joan walked out of the room and left him to come to terms with the possibility that he had precipitated the onset of his nightmares.


	5. Chapter 5

Seething at his audacity, Joan slammed the door to her room. He of all people telling her what was wrong with her. The man was a walking casebook of psychological disorders! With both hands she pushed her hair back and away from her face and scanned her room. 

The compulsion to run filled her, to move out of the house, walk away from him completely. But that would only prove him right. She grabbed a pair of pants and started dressing. Yes, it was cold and after eight and she didn't know where she was going but she needed out. She pulled a sweater over her head as she berated herself. Why did she care what he thought, why did she care at all.

Quietly, she made her way down the stairs and took her coat from the rack. She glanced over towards the library as she put it on. Sherlock stood ramrod still, silhouetted against the orange light of the fireplace. Joan grabbed a scarf and wrapped it round her neck. He said nothing as he watched her leave.

Her stride was fast, fueled by anger and the need to put as much distance as possible between herself and him. The cold wind on her face felt good, cleansing, sweeping away the remains of the sludge that had erupted within. Her hair flew in all directions, whipping up and around and then behind her. She must look like a mad woman to the few people she passed. She didn't care.

Pounding booted steps into the sidewalk, her anger began to subside, but thoughts emerged to fill the void and make themselves heard as the rage quieted. She genuinely loved what she was doing at the clinic. Perhaps the move had been sparked by fear but it was good for her, good for them in the long run. He had a hundred outlets, hobbies, interests that did not obstruct or deter him from detective work. This was hers. If anything it kept her sane, it kept her from running away. 

Running away ... Yes, fine, she admitted he was right but only to a certain extent. The hug they shared, the kiss, at first exhilarating, devolved into anxiety and worry. What if, what if, what if tumbled through her until she felt that with that one spontaneous hug a commitment had been made and she would never be free. She understood the irrationality of it all, but the thoughts lurked in the background, urging her to act. 

She never had any intention of breaking away completely from him, doubted she ever could. But the sense of suffocation, of tentacles tightening themselves around her whenever anyone got too close had been a lifelong issue. One she kept hidden, one no one had ever suspected, not even Dr. Reed, or called her out on. Her secret monster. 

Even as a small child she remembered that feeling of being trapped, of friends wanting more than she could or would give - Angela in second grade who wanted to be her best and truest friend. She disentangled herself from her, told herself Angela just wanted to copy her homework and probably Angela really liked Oren and that's why she was being nice to her and she couldn't possibly be her best friend and soon enough she wasn't. 

Unlike Sherlock, Joan didn't immediately push people away; she allowed them in but only just so far before the great wooden doors began to creak, then quickly crash shut and the metal bolt thrown.

She stopped at a light. A couple huddling close against the cold passed by her, laughing at some shared observation. Relationships, those that stayed relatively superficial, were not a problem. It was when friends pushed in that her back stiffened. The intervention that Emily and her friends tried when she first started working with Sherlock was never truly forgiven.

Joan liked people, truly she did. She liked helping people as long as she was in control, as long as they did not make too many demands of her, as long as they stood outside the well defined perimeter. She had moved that perimeter in closer for Sherlock and now he seemed to want to cross it, move in even closer and it scared her to the depths of her being. How could she allow him to come in any further, to reside within her? His leaving her a few years ago, when they weren't as close as they were now, reopened a wound in her, leaving a gaping hole and reinforced for her that she was right to keep him and everyone away. 

Thinking back to his abandoning her to join MI6, Joan understood that perhaps she had triggered his flight response with hers. What a mess they were. She already was feeling trapped when Mycroft showed up, and unwittingly used Mycroft to take a step back and further distance herself from Sherlock by moving out. But of course, Sherlock moved first and in his usual over the top and grandiose manner ran to another continent and reinforced her beliefs. You let someone in and they will leave you. In retrospect it seemed obvious but while you are living and reenacting the scenario of loss and pain there is no logic, only reaction. 

Sherlock was partially wrong though. He thought this only stemmed from her dad's abandoning her family. Her mom also had a hand in creating her monster. Her mom who had also been abandoned, who did the best she could for her children by marrying a man who would provide for them. A man who she was then stuck with, who she couldn't leave even when infidelity and narcissism ... ugh, enough! Joan stopped and pushed it all away, feeling guilty for even thinking any of this. Her stepdad had been good to them, she should be grateful. 

It was all so stupid to still carry these ... these intertwined yet contradictory thoughts, feelings and ideas that no longer mattered. And she did a good job of not letting them overwhelm her ... usually. She dealt with them. They were hers and not something anyone else should have to concern themselves with. Leave it to Sherlock to push and prod and pick at things that should be left alone. 

Joan kept walking. The cold was numbing her nose and face. Autumn should not be this cold. The desire to head home came over her and confused her even more. She wasn't sure at the moment in which direction to turn to head home. Her paced slowed but she kept moving. 

Joan understood his issues as well. They'd both faced similar problems, abandonment, being the outsider. Sherlock had led a solitary life, choosing carefully who he let in close, his rough behavior and strident words acting as a filter. Only the slime that was Moriarty managed to squirm through and wound him, almost kill him. Joan was surprised he would want to risk baring himself again, even for her. He had let Fiona in, but only so far. Fiona was never truly privy to the raw being beneath the tightly buttoned persona. Sherlock laid bare was a monstrous beauty, like a lenticular print, he could shift from an angry, knife-wielding maniac to a soul with a heart large enough to encompass and soothe all the pain before it. His mind, the great controller, kept the world at a fixed point, displaying only the cold hard shell, repelling those that ventured close. 

She knew him, better than anyone and he, apparently knew her. 

And here they were. Two very damaged souls who somehow found each other. He had lifted barriers and allowed her in and now clung to her in desperate fear that she would leave. But his clutching at her only triggered doors to shut, more need to run lest she be tricked into loving. Joan didn't know if she was strong enough to let him in, strong enough not to hurt him, strong enough to allow for the possibility of being torn apart. 

She sat at a bus stop, unsure how she had gotten there. She adjusted the scarf to cover her icy nose an realized she had taken his scarf by mistake. The faint scent of him clung to the wool. She lowered her face into its folds and took a breath, a sense of warmth and comfort suffused her. If not for him, then for who? Physical intimacy was not the issue for either of them. Emotional intimacy, laying herself bare before him was the issue.

The squeal of brakes and soft swoosh of a bus opening its doors drew her attention outwards. Joan waved no thanks at the driver and checked the time. Almost eleven thirty. Her toes were numb. This wasn't helping anything. As much as it frightened her, she needed to talk to him.

Joan stood, oriented herself and set a path back home. Sherlock was right, in certain ways, the tough times were easier. Actions and reactions were clear cut when danger loomed. When things were quiet and at peace, any action might be the wrong one.


	6. Chapter 6

The house was dark except for the last of the evening's fire, a few low flames flickered amid the glowing embers in the fireplace. Joan quietly took off her coat, sat on the stairs and pulled off her boots. The thick socks had helped but she was still cold. She walked into the library, heading towards what was left of the fire. The outline of his body asleep on the sofa caught her attention. She moved quietly past him and sat on the ottoman by the hearth, wiggling her toes and watching the embers light up and twinkle like small cityscapes at night.

"You came back." His was voice so quiet she wasn't sure he meant for her to hear him.

Joan turned and looked at him; except for his eyes being open, he had not moved at all. The last of the fire cast grey shadows across his face making it hard to read. 

Joan walked over to the sofa and sat on the floor, her back to him pressed against the red velvet, her head almost resting on the seat cushion. Close enough to talk but not to touch. She stared straight ahead not knowing how to begin this conversation. 

"You're wearing my scarf," he whispered.

Joan nodded. "I grabbed it by mistake ... hard to know sometimes ... where you end and I begin ..." She attempted a smile. She unwound the scarf from around her neck and held the soft wool close to her face for a moment before handing it to him. Sherlock took it without a word, the warmth of her lingered on the scarf and he held it to him. 

"I'm sorry. I know I went too far. ...I crossed a line I shouldn't have ..."

Joan looked down, "Its alright. Sometimes friends have to push at our boundaries for our own good. ... some of what you said hit very close to home .... and some of it was way off base." She took a breath. "My work at the clinic is important to me. I'm not giving that up. I will admit that subconsciously perhaps you were the catalyst.... but it is something I've been missing, helping people directly, actively .... I'm not letting go of that, so if that's a problem for you ... "

He broke in, "I understand. You need to do what is right for you. My complaints were selfish, erupting from fear of losing what we have. I realize now that if that is all it takes to break us then we have nothing ..."

Joan wiped a tear that threatened and sighed. "The bigger issue is us. We are both coming to the same place with opposite solutions. You're instinct is to cling, to hold on tight and faced with that my instinct is to break free and run. We are more than instinct though ... we can find a way I think..." she looked at him, his head still laying on the throw pillow, eyes glassy with emotion held in check. Not trusting himself to speak, a tiny bob of his head served as acknowledgment of her words. 

She turned her body so that her chin almost rested on the sofa cushion, with her face level with his, her arm moved up beside it to anchor her position. He watched as Joan's hand slowly moved to his and pulled it carefully away from the scarf until it lay open, palm up, between them. She took a breath and found the courage to speak. "If you will hold me with an open hand .... I will hold on to you with all my strength." She searched his face, his eyes, his lips for a response.

A tear trickled down and onto the pillow. "I will..." His whispered words carried the solemnness of a vow. 

Joan bent her head and placed a kiss in the center of his open palm. Sherlock leaned forward, laying his head lightly on her dark hair. "... you will talk to me? tell me your feelings? Tell me if I've transgressed?"

She picked up her face and nodded, "I will...." Her hand caressed his stubbly cheek and he turned his head to lightly kiss her palm.

Her hand was ice cold, "You're freezing!" Sherlock scooted back on the sofa and raised the blanket, "Would you feel comfortable sharing? If not ... here you take the sofa and I'll go get ..." Before he could finish his sentence, Joan moved in beside him, wrapped her arms around his waist and placed her head at his neck. 

The immediate reaction was shock. His body stiffened but as her arms went round him and he felt her breath at his neck, began to relax. Somehow this felt familiar and right. He dropped the blanket over both of them and adjusted. "Your feet are like ice blocks, even through your socks," he complained as he sought to cover them with his. "You should have said something.... Perhaps I should rekindle the fire." He was nervously rambling. "You have no fat for insulation, your body must get cold more quickly than most. You should ..."

"Sherlock! Shut up." Her muffled voice came from where her head snuggled at his neck. "It's alright ... we'll be alright." She tightened her grip around his waist. He exhaled.

Sleep came quickly.

Joan awoke to a note affixed to the pillow. "Gone to drop off honey at Sunday farmers market, then meeting." In turn she texted him before she left the house, "Going up to see my mom, spending the day." He already knew of her plans, they had discussed her mom's disease and its progression recently, but she wanted him to know she was not running away.


	7. Chapter 7

Monday came much too soon. Joan had drawn another early shift at the clinic. She came down fully suited for breakfast. 

He watched her pull a cup from the cabinet. "Pinstripe suit, white shirt, tie, vest ... do you think you might be over dressing for the clinic?" Sherlock carefully pushed a panful of scrambled eggs with his favorite spatula and gave her a sidelong glance. 

Joan squinted at him. "Are you attempting to give me wardrobe advice?"

"No, wouldn't dream of it." He divided the eggs between two plates. "Just making an observation. Most of the people you treat are homeless or at below poverty level, are they not?" He plucked two very hot slices of bread out of the toaster and placed one on each plate. 

Joan poured her coffee and his. "Yes, and your point is?"

He took the plates to the table. "That perhaps your wardrobe may push your clients away rather than make them feel comfortable."

Joan rolled her eyes at him, put their mugs on the table and sat.

"I'm just saying that you look more like a police detective than a doctor." He sat and took a quick sip of his very hot coffee.

Joan took a bite of toast and considered his comment. "I need to look professional. You don't want your doctor in jeans and a tshirt." She took a forkful of eggs and tilted her head at him waiting for his comeback.

"Well ... You know best in these matters. I defer to your knowledge." And he attacked his breakfast with gusto. "How late do you work today?"

"One," she answered still thinking about her attire. "I may do some shopping after work, unless a case comes in, of course." She continued eating.

"Of course. I'll keep you in the loop."

She took another sip of her coffee. "What do you have planned this morning?"

He gulped down the last of his eggs. "Going to a meeting with Alfredo and then the library at the Natural History Museum to continue my research on poisonous caterpillars."

"Let me know if you bring any home would you?" She picked up her plate and took it to the sink. 

He followed suit. "You have an aversion to caterpillars?"

"Poisonous ones? Yes." She gave him a scrunched nose grimace and turned. 

"Watson, wait." Sherlock went to the refrigerator and retrieved a brown paper bag. He offered it to her.

She looked at the bag suspiciously, "What's this? Not caterpillars I hope."

"I made you a small snack slash lunch to take with you." He seemed embarrassed as he handed it over to her. "You were complaining of the snack machine offerings last week and I ..." he looked down and away almost unwilling to admit that he might have been thoughtful in preparing for her work day.

She smiled at his discomfort and took the brown bag from him. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

He knitted his brow and shook his head. "Go. You'll be late."

She peered in the bag. "Did you include a note with a smiley face," she teased.

He rolled his eyes, "Just go. I'll text you if we get a case."

"Alright." They both stopped and stared at each other for a second. Joan broke into a small smile, as did he.

"Go!" He grumbled in his gruffest manner. She went off to work swinging her lunch bag.

 

"Where are you?" His voice came through with static. She could hear agitated voices in the background.

"At Jimmy Choos. Shoe sale. What's going on?" Joan stepped out of the store and started to cross the street towards the quiet grey walls of St Patrick's. 

"We've been called in to consult. Homicide at Columbia. In the research labs of one Professor Howard Twiddle, deceased."

Joan leaned up against the low wall. "Okay. I can be there in about twenty minutes." She heard voices raised in the background. "Is everything alright there? Whose screaming?" Sherlock didn't answer. More yelling, followed by Sherlock's voice, "Marcus! Gun!" Three shots, more screaming and more gun shots followed by voices and running footsteps. 

Joan took a step away from the wall. "Sherlock! ... Sherlock! Are you okay?" She started walking to Fifth to hail a taxi. "Sherlock!" Panic rose as the phone went dead at his end.

Joan jumped in the taxi. "Columbia, please hurry."

She started dialing frantically, first to Bell - no answer. Then to Gregson. He picked up immediately. "Joan? Where are you?"

"In a cab heading to Columbia. What's going in on? Is anyone hurt?" Are you with Sherlock and Marcus?"

"No, I'm in the building but not where the shooting occurred."

"Shooting? Are Sherlock and Marcus alright?" Her stomach clenched in fear and she started bartering with the universe for their safety. 

"We don't know. The gunman has barricaded himself in the lab and we've lost communication with our guys in there."

"Oh god..."

"Check in with me when you get here. I'm on the fourth floor. Don't worry. Marcus and Sherlock are seasoned pros at this sort of thing." Gregson was trying to calm her but even he didn't believe what he was saying. 

"Yes. Sure. Thanks."

Joan hung up the call, closed her eyes shut. From somewhere deep inside, childhood training kicked in and the prayers that Sister Gerald Ann had taught her came tumbling from her lips in a soft whisper. 

Her phone lit up in her hand. A text flashed: M&I r ok tll G stay bck 

Joan's heart pounded. She answered K and dialed Gregson telling her what Sherlock had just texted. The cab came to a stop and she threw her shoe money at the driver hoping it was enough before running out towards the building's lobby entrance.

Black and whites with lights flashing surrounded the building and uniformed officers guarded the entrance. She called out her credentials as she passed them. Luckily the officer stationed at the door knew her and Sherlock and she waved her in. Inside a sickening silence met her. She entered the elevator and pressed number four.


	8. Chapter 8

The elevator door opened onto a sea of dark blue. Uniformed police were everywhere, making Gregson, in civilian clothes easy to spot. He stood, head slightly bent, listening to a report from a short, dark haired woman, a crime scene specialist if she remembered correctly. Joan walked up; Gregson acknowledged her but kept listening to the woman. She stayed a distance away so as not to intrude but close enough to listen. Unfortunately she came in at the end of the conversation. 

"Thank you, Sue," Gregson lightly touched the woman's upper arm. "O'Brien will take your full statement in a few." He motioned over one of the unis, "Take Sue downstairs please." He returned his attention to the woman, "I know you're alright but we're going to have the EMTs look you over ... you know the drill." He gave her a lopsided smile and a gentle pat on the back. As Sue walked away, he turned to Joan. He motioned her over and they walked to a quieter corner of the hall.

"Wasn't sure you'd find us," he stood with his back to the wall, keeping an eye on his men. "We moved up to the lab floor in case ... well..." he cleared his throat.

Joan grew impatient, "How bad is it?"

"We have a hostage situation in there. Turns out the shooter is the deceased's wife and she's holding Marcus, Holmes and one uniform officer at gun point. She released Sue because she's female and, I quote, "has probably suffered enough in this lifetime." I think this might have been a domestic dispute that followed the doc to the lab."

"Are they hurt? Has she threatened further violence?" Joan's face fell into professional mode, her protection against falling apart. Gregson could see how scared she was, her eyes were large and darting everywhere, much like Holmes when he tried to take everything in at once. 

"No. No one is hurt according to Sue. And there are no demands. The woman is scared and I think has got herself in a position where she sees no way out."

Joan understood how dangerous the situation could get. 

"She is angry. Angry at her dead husband and Sue thinks she's transferred that to any male that crosses her path. The uniformed officer, Ben, is getting the brunt of the abuse from her. Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Twiddle told him he reminds her of her late husband. Holmes and Bell's best hope is to not say anything to aggravate the situation.

Joan's eyebrows shot up and she shared a look with the Captain. Sherlock was not one to stay quiet and she loved the man but she wasn't sure he could ever not aggravate anyone. Marcus was their best bet. "Let me go in there." 

"No." Gregson didn't even stop to think. "We have negotiators coming in."

"I'm female, I have experience, I'm right here. Let me try."

"No. You're a civilian and a doctor. I don't think that woman is very fond of doctors right now."

"She doesn't need to know I'm a doctor. I can gain her ..."

Two shots rang out in quick succession. Gregson barked orders and men in tactical gear jumped into action, breaking down the door and pushing their way in. Joan stood back for a moment. No further shots. She darted for the doorway before anyone could stop her. 

Her worst fear met her as she walked in. Sherlock was on the floor with Marcus and several others around him. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the shooter, incoherent and sobbing on the ground, arms cuffed behind her back.

Joan pushed her way in, her whole body rigid with fear. Marcus was the first to jump up when he saw her, but her eyes were trained on the body on the floor. She couldn't lose him, not now, please let him be alright. 

Sherlock lay flat on his back, a small stain of blood smeared on the floor beside him. He turned his head when he realized it was her approaching. "Ah, Watson! Sorry to have interrupted your shoe shopping." With a wince, he sat up crossed legged, holding his upper arm. "Did you enjoy your snack slash lunch," he beamed at her trying to allay the terror he saw in her eyes. 

Joan attempted to get her heart and breathing under control. He was alive and being a smart-ass and she thanked the heavens. She didn't say a word, didn't trust her voice, but bent down next to him and tried to examine his wound.

Marcus kneeled beside her. "He's okay and so is Jones. Holmes pushed Jones out of the way when he saw her raise the gun." The EMTs clattered in to the lab, rolling in a gurney.

"Better to aim at me than Jones. I'm younger and more agile than the Officer. He has a family that needs him." Joan helped him up and whispered at him, "So do you." He looked at her tenderly though confused. "Clyde would be heartbroken without you." She stood with him as they prepared the gurney. "Me too," she mouthed for his eyes only. 

The pain disappeared and all Sherlock could think of was her, her words, her lips.... The EMTs sat him on the gurney, removed his jacket and cut away his shirt sleeve to better examine the wound. She stood beside him and tried not to interfere. 

Sherlock thought about what she had requested of him, to hold her with an open hand, now realizing how difficult that would be. He touched her finger, holding its pad for a second between his thumb and index finger. They shared a moment of wordless communication and separated.

Marcus watched the exchange and the moony looks being exchanged between them and was relieved that what ever the bump in the road they'd faced last week, they had managed to overcome it. 

Joan looked on as the EMTs worked. The bullet had grazed his shoulder. The wound was cleaned and a butterfly bandage applied. Sherlock refused to go to the hospital for a full examination. 

"My flatmate here is a first-rate practicing physician," he told them. Joan rolled her eyes and turned her head to hide her pleased look as he continued. "I'm certain she can handle any complications that might arise." He thanked them, signed the release and hopped off the gurney.

They found Bell and Gregson outside the lab arranging for transport of the deceased and his killer. The Captain looked at Joan, "Shouldn't he be on his way to the hospital?"

She looked over to see him attempting to ease his bandaged arm into his bloodstained jacket. He was an odd sight; the EMT had cut away his shirt sleeve but the rest of the shirt was intact and back to being buttoned all the way up to the collar. Joan took the jacket from his hands and held it up to make it easier to slip his arm in. She responded to Gregson, "He decided not to go." She gave the Captain a shrug as she adjusted Sherlock's collar. "I think he'll be fine."

"Nothing better than being talked about as if one weren't present, eh?" He looked from the Captain to Joan with a bounce and a twitch. Joan wasn't sure if it was from pain or irritability, probably both. He walked away.

 

The interrogation went easier than anyone could have predicted. The woman calmed down and asked for a lawyer after she admitted killing her husband. She had put up with abuse for years and saw only one way out. After hearing her story, Sherlock and Joan concurred that if it had been in their power they would have looked away as she made her escape.

The phone in Sherlock's pocket dinged a message as they exited the precinct. "Hmm, Minerva and Athena ..." He turned and looked at Joan. "We had plans for tonight..." He looked rather sheepishly at her, phone still in hand. Sherlock tried to gauge her reaction.

Her face let nothing slip. "If you're worried about your arm, you should be fine. The wound's not deep. Just don't over exert yourself. Use your other arm for ... errr ... what ever it is you do." Her cheeks flushed the lightest of pinks; he took notice. 

"You don't mind?" He felt rather disappointed with her approval.

"Why would I mind?" She glanced at him and kept walking.

Sherlock sighed and texted his answer to their query.


	9. Chapter 9

Joan tossed and turned and fluffed and then savagely punched her pillow. Her room was cold and dark and the bed was warm and comfortable but sleep would not dare to approach her in the agitated state she was in. Joan kept thinking about what might be going on downstairs and then berating herself for thinking about what might be going on downstairs. It was his life to do as he chose; she did not figure into the equation. Their relationship was in flux at the moment - not sure where they stood. She reminded herself that sex to sherlock was an exercise, it meant nothing. These "dates" were common practice for him. It never bothered her much before. There was no reason on earth it should bother her now. Right? Right!?!

She sat up in bed trying not to go where her mind was dragging her. It was 2:00 a.m. She needed water but she didn't want to go down there. She didn't want to hear anything or god forbid see anything. 

Joan put on her robe and slippers. This was ridiculous She was a grown adult woman. A dehydrated adult woman. And she was going to get a glass of water. Sherlock was always good about keeping his bedroom door closed on evenings such as this. She cautiously made her way down the stairs, listening for anything that might make her want to turn and run. The house was quiet. She stood at the top of the stairs leading to the kitchen and listened. No noise. She tried to screw up her courage and move but she just stood there unsure what to do.

"You all right, Watson?"

Joan gasped and jumped. He was almost directly behind her. Her instinct was to hit him but she stopped herself short. "I needed a glass of water ... I didn't want to ... you know ... interrupt anything."

He watched her, amused. She was so flustered it was rather endearing. 

"I uhm, I'll just get water from the uhm, the you know ... bathroom." Yet she didn't move. He just stood there not knowing what to say to her and it made her all the more uncomfortable.

Joan put her hand on her forehead and rubbed, staring at the ground for a second. "Okay ... I'm sorry. I uhm ... I guess I really do mind... that you ... and that they." She waved a hand down the stairs at where she imagined Athena and Minerva were. "Not that I have any reason to have any say over anything you want to uh ... do. I'm sorry .." She looked up at him. His eyes shone with a happiness he could not contain. 

"I sent them home. I minded too." He pressed his lips into a thin line. "It just didn't seem .... right. ... Not sure why ..." He gave her a wide-eyed innocent look.

They stood facing each other not knowing what to say or do. Sherlock suddenly took in a sharp breath, "Right then. Let's get you that glass of water, hmm?"

 

Downstairs, he removed the water pitcher from the refrigerator while she got two glasses from the cabinet. She quietly watched him pour. Not sure what to say or do after her admission, she fell back to being Dr. Watson. "How's your arm?"

He gingerly lifted and rotated his arm and shoulder. "It's sore but not too bad."

She set her glass down. "Let me take a look at it." He lifted the cuff of his t-shirt and placed the arm at her disposal. She gently moved the bandage and checked. "I should change that. Its seeped a little. Best to keep it clean if possible." She motioned to the kitchen table. "Have a seat." She went to the back cupboard and pulled out their first aid kit. 

"You don't have to ..." Sherlock tried to protest. 

"I said, have a seat." She authoritatively cocked her head at him. 

"Yes, doctor, right away, doctor." The mocking tone in his voice made her almost smile. 

He pulled the t-shirt sleeve way up and out of the way, Joan put on a pair of gloves and gently pulled the adhesive bandage away from his skin. "You're lucky she didn't hit your other arm, it would have ruined your tattoo."

"I purposely spun in mid-air at the last possible moment to avoid harm to my tattooed arm." He spoke with such seriousness that for a second she almost believed him, until he pulled his mouth exaggeratedly down to further affirm his story. 

She pursed her lips at him and examined the wound. "Uh huh," she reached for gauze. "I take it you've been re-reading The Midnight Ranger."

"Ow!" He flinched.

Joan pulled her hand back, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

The look of remorse on her face for causing him pain hurt him more than the bullet had. His words came in rapid succession to let her know he was fine. "No, it's alright, it's alright. It's okay. Just a little sensitive is all." 

Joan searched his face to verify his words and once convinced scooted herself closer to his chair and to him, knees almost touching. She was determined not to hurt him again. They fell silent and he watched her work, noting her cautiousness at first which gave way to self-assured natural skill. Joan finished re-bandaging his injury, and took off the latex gloves with a snap. He looked at her pleased.

"What?" She questioned the look on his face.

"Nothing," he answered softly. Her fingers gently smoothed down the edges of the adhesive venturing onto the smooth skin surrounding the bandage. He felt warm, warmer than he should for the temperature of the room. "I'm going to take your temperature. You feel a little warm..."

Sherlock started to speak and paused for a second, before deciding to continue. "I'm not running a fever. The warmth can be otherwise explained..."

She gave him a look and waited for his response. "How?" She finally asked. 

"You." He answered and shifted his gaze away, sneaking a peak back at her from the corner of his eye.

A look of pain or perhaps relief dropped across her face; Sherlock couldn't tell. Joan moved forwards into him, in slow motion, until her forehead found its place below his neck. A surprised Sherlock lowered his head, laying his cheek lightly on her hair. "What's wrong?" He murmured, fearing he had closed his hand too tightly in reaching for her. 

Joan sighed, "Nothing. It's just ... been a day." She adjusted her head on his chest, laying her temple flat against him. "You laying there on the lab floor ... I thought you were ..." She could say the word. "I couldn't ..." Sherlock bravely moved his hand onto her back and soothed while Joan continued. "And then tonight, in a way I started feeling like I lost you again..."

Her words were as soft as a breath. His chin brushed against her forehead, lips grazing till he found the spot to lay a small kiss. The feel of her skin on his lips enticed him to linger before speaking. "You know you cannot lose me, Watson... ever." The intensity with which he uttered the words, gripped at her and she raised her face to his eyes.

His hand cautiously moved to her upper arm and then her hair, fingers threading through the dark silk, pulling her to him. Her breath against his skin, hot and sweet, pulsating, marking the rise and fall of her chest gave him the courage to press forward. 

Sherlock instinctively lowered his head to hers. Nuzzling, stubbled cheeks against soft, lips lightly exploring, they touched more than kissed. All thought lost to sensations - touch, smell, taste and soon enough her hand rose to his face, fingers traced his cheek and then brought him to her and the kiss he'd longed for earlier in the day. 

An affirmation, a signet of the affection that forever bubbled but had yet to be named, the kiss was a more intimate act than either had ever experienced. Breathless, they pulled reluctantly pulled away. A sense of anticipation echoed between them. They stood at the threshold of something intensely enticing but both were rational beings who relied on their brain more so than their heart and they wavered.

Joan realized how much they'd been through emotionally these past few weeks and made the decision. Time was necessary. Rushing into something was not them. Time was needed to digest and understand how their relationship was changing and as much as her body told her it needed him, her brain guided her away.

"I should go back upstairs. You need your rest." She was trying to convince herself much more so than him.

As she had decided to be prudent, Sherlock felt exactly the opposite. He knew what he wanted, how the relationship should grow. "You can stay with me here if you'd like." His eyes pleaded his case. "I found the night we slept together to have been immensely restful."

"If I stay we are not going to sleep ... we both know that." Her heart raced with the admission. 

"And that would be wrong?" His question was asked with sincerity. 

"Tonight it would be, I think."

Sherlock once more remembered her statement about holding her with an open hand. He nodded his head and took her hand, turning her palm upward he kissed its center. "Good night then."

It took all her strength to walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs and all of his strength to let her go.


	10. Chapter 10

"Rise and shine!" Sherlock's cheery and loud greeting pulled Joan out of a sound sleep. Knowing exactly what came next, she slammed her eyes shut. Bright sunlight poured in from each noisily un-shuttered window and changed the color of the darkness behind her eyelids. She slowly cracked open one eye and then the other. 

"Ugh.. what time is it?" She pushed back a tangle of hair and squinted at her partner's happy form placing a tray of breakfast beside her. They must have a case. 

"It is precisely 7:37," he proclaimed without checking his watch. Sherlock bounced before her. "We have a case Watson, a particularly gruesome one, full of crannies and crevices. Would you like me to choose your garments?"

Joan reached for her coffee, "No, no. I'll pick my own today. Thanks."

"Fine. But hurry!" He stood and watched her take her first sip with a rather soft look on his face. 

She looked up in time to catch the fleeting look before he pivoted and walked out of the room. 

The case was as he said and filled their waking hours. Joan still put in her time at the clinic and he controlled himself enough the first day to only text her three or four times an hour. She muted her phone. 

The pending changes in their personal relationship appeared to have no detrimental effect on them.

The case dragged on into week two. They had moments when things could have happened, when he nodded off from exhaustion and his head ended up on her lap, she might have taken an opportunity to caress his hair, when she leaned over to examine the photo in the file folder in his hand and when she was within a lips reach of a kiss, he might have kissed her cheek and abruptly started a conversation about fungus in order to fend off any conversation of an emotional nature and she might not have minded. 

But as the case dragged on the mood shifted when a suspect came to light that was not mutually agreed upon. 

 

Gregson walked towards Bell, scowling, "What is that ruckus?"

Marcus looked apologetic and bobbed his head in the direction of the meeting room. "Holmes and Watson are having a bit of a disagreement regarding the case."

"I could hear them from my office." The Captain opened the door and walked into the tempest.

"You are refusing to accept the man as our chief suspect, even with the mountain of evidence against him, because he is attractive or rather you find him attractive," Sherlock disgustedly threw the file onto the table between them.

Joan fumed at the accusation. "No evidence, there is NO evidence that points to Roger. And you have some nerve accusing me of bias, you who slept with a murder suspect while she was under investigation." 

Gregson turned sharply to look at Holmes, "What? When was..."

Sherlock's voice rose even louder, "I'm sure that given half a chance you would gladly accept a similar invitation from Roger." He over pronounced and mocked the suspect's name.

Before Joan got a chance to answer Gregson stopped them. "What the hell is wrong with you two? I don't know what's going on here but this is not the place for this. Since you are incapable of acting like professionals, I'd like you to leave," Joan and Sherlock stood staring at the Captain, not quite believing what he had just said. "Both of you! Now. Leave! Get some rest, fight this out at home. Go!"

Flustered, they each picked up their notes and files and left without so much as a goodbye. Marcus attempted to share a bit of an amused look with Gregson after the consultants had vacated the premises. The Captain was not amused. 

 

The cab ride home was tense. Each picked a window to stare out of and spoke not one word to the other. As the door to the brownstone closed, Joan took up their conversation.

"How dare you accuse me, especially in front of the Captain, of being anything but impartial!"

"Me!? You, you are the one who brought up the subject with your accusation."

"It's not an accusation, it's a fact. You slept with that prima dona ballerina while we were investigating..."

"For the sake of the case, yes ..."

"Oh bullshit!" She threw down her coat. "Don't accuse me when it's you ..."

"Admit it. You are very much attracted to this Roger fellow and you are letting that influence..."

"No! You! You are acting like a jealous school boy and are stacking the deck against him."

Sherlock stopped and scoffed, pointing at himself with open hands. "Me? Me jealous? You must be mad. What possible reason would I have to be jealous of this, this actor, whose life is spent aping the actions of his betters."

A slow smile spread across her face, "That's it, isn't it? You are jealous of the man because you think I find him sexually appealing." As she said the words her smile faded with the realization of what the statement intimated. 

Sherlock got quiet and observed her. "Do you?"

"Do I what?" 

"Do you find him sexually appealing?"

"Well, yes ... of course I do. I mean most women probably find him appealing. The man is a celebrity whose built a career on that attribute. But if you're implying that I am letting that color my opinion of his guilt or innocence then you obviously don't know me as well as I thought."

He frowned at her while he thought over her words. "I see." Sherlock nodded distractedly and walked away into the lock room. He pulled a chair and gave the blank computer monitor his full attention.

She turned and picked up her coat, hung it on the rack and watched him from a safe distance. She could just let this go, or ...

Joan walked up and stood beside his chair. "What's wrong? Do you think ... are you upset because you think I don't find you attractive..."

Sherlock stopped her before she embarrassed herself and him with unnecessary admissions. "No. That's not it at all. I can ... uhm ... deduce, for lack of a better word, that is to say, I believe our ... attraction is mutual. That's not the problem. The problem is how easily we permitted personal feelings in to what should have been a professional discourse.... accusing each other of wrong doing, letting emotion cloud judgement, jealousy and the like..... all after just one kiss."

"It was a pretty amazing kiss though," she murmured. 

He looked up at her with faint amusement and concurred, "Yes. It was."

He paused, and adopted a more serious air. "We have and always will be the closest of friends and partners, but a more intimate relationship, even the mere possibility of a more intimate relationship, evidences a weakness in our natures that may wreak havoc on our work and our friendship. We need to step back and rethink this ... Perhaps we should not cross the line ..."

"I agree." He looked up at her surprised at the quickness of her reply. 

Joan moved closer and placed her hand on the table's red surface, "Moriarty wasn't able to break us, nor was Mycroft, your leaving for London, Elana March, Andrew's death, your relapse, not even your almighty father ... but you and I having sex and an open loving relationship.... well, I can't think of anything more dangerous to our partnership than that."

He refused to look at her but Joan continued. "This is very new and very stressful for us. As you pointed out, this attempt at a closer relationship triggers each of our greatest fears and yet we are trying and finding a way because ..." she stopped and closed her eyes. At her pause, Sherlock looked up to face her and saw how difficult this was for her. 

"...You don't have to say it Watson....I know.... I just don't know if that's enough."

As he spoke, Joan understood and she found herself defending what a few weeks ago had sent her running. 

"Yes, it is enough." Her voice rang strong as she continued. "It will take effort and be painful and there'll be a mountain of a learning curve in how to deal with our problems." 

Sherlock stood and walked a few paces away from her, nervously fidgeting with the locks on the grid. "You make it sound so enticing." He looked over his shoulder at her with a sad smirk.

Joan took a depth breath to steel herself before speaking. "I love you ... more than anyone or anything else ..." She trembled, overwhelmed with fear at laying herself emotionally bare before him, yet she continued, "We belong together .... completely. There is no alternative. If we turn away from each other because we are afraid of what might or might not be, if we refuse to acknowledge and accept the depth of our connection, we will spend the rest of our lives in misery looking over our shoulders." Sherlock, hands in jacket pockets, hung his head and listened but would not look at her.

Her voice grew stronger but softer, "And this isn't just about physical intimacy... this is about an emotional commitment regardless of our past and our fears and .... I'm willing to do this for us ... for you. But it's your decision, too. No matter what you decide ... I love you, Sherlock ..." 

Sherlock did not move, did not look at her, did not acknowledge any of what she said. Joan waited until she felt rather foolish and finally walked away without another word.

Before she crossed the threshold to the library, she felt his hand grip her shoulder. She turned to find his face inches from hers. Sherlock's eyes, large and wild, studied her. Carefully, he leaned and placed his hands on each side of her head, tilted her face to meet his and brought his lips to hers. He kissed her, full, deep and open mouthed and she responded with equal passion. Her hands instinctively grabbed at his waist and held on as his fingers ran through her hair and pulled her closer into him. 

His lips pulled away enough for her words to form against her skin, "I love you... love you, Watson .... we can..." The rest of his words were swallowed by her mouth against his, her hands clutching at the back of his neck. He pressed forward, pushing her against the flat of the wall, his lips at her neck while her fingers thrust into his hair encouraged him on.

Still holding on to each other, they maneuvered themselves on to the floor. Amid moans and affirmations and avowals, clothing was unbuttoned, unzipped, removed, in a frenzy. It was not how either of them had pictured the consummation - not tender nor discreet but rather fast and wild with desire given permission and unleashed. 

He lay spent on top of her, her bare legs still clutching at his hips, shuddering with the last bits of satisfaction. Sherlock rose his head from her breast and pressed in to her just enough for one last undulating wave of pleasure to run through her. She moaned softly and gripped his good shoulder. With equal pleasure Sherlock watched her face, as half lidded eyes opened a little wider and smiled. Her arms draped round his neck, she playfully bit at his chin and kissed him once again. 

Sherlock sighed deeply, the feel of her beneath him an almost otherworldly experience. He lay his head beside hers, proclaiming his love and devotion for her in soft murmurs to her ear. She nuzzled his cheek and held on, a sense of peace, of happiness, swept over her.

The sound of a phone ringing made them both jump. Raising their heads, they scanned the clothes strewn round them until the offender revealed itself glowing in Sherlock's discarded jacket. 

He looked at her almost for permission before moving to reach for it. Joan sat up and pressed her cheek and torso against his bare back, listening to his half of the conversation. His voice reverberated, "I see.... yes ... yes, we will. Understood. Thank you." He clicked off the phone.

"We need to get dressed. Seems we were both right about Roger. He was not the murderer but he was an accomplice. Marcus wants us there for the interrogation."

He stood and helped her up. As they dressed, they also took on their professional mantle, discussing the points of the case and details that the suspect needed to clarify. Once dressed, Holmes and Watson, consulting detectives, strode towards the door.

"Perhaps you're right, Watson. We can do this." Sherlock opened the door for her. 

She pursed her lips, "Of course, I'm right." She mocked his accent, "Whenever am I not."


End file.
